by Blake Pierce
Haughton’s smile, already wide, broadened even further. He seemed to genuinely be enjoying this.
“I guess that’s why they pay me the big bucks,” he said sadly, “to take the heat for the tough decisions. If I have to take the hit for this, so be it. I really would love to help. But unfortunately it’s against studio policy to provide access to those files without a valid warrant. And far be it from me to undermine the policies adopted and approved by shareholders. You understand.”
Jessie smiled back, appreciating the guy’s skills despite her disappointment.
“I do indeed, sir.”
He politely bid them well and they walked out of the office, full of suspicion but empty-handed. Despite all of their suspects, none had emerged as a clear target.
“What now?” Trembley asked.
Jessie looked at him, hoping she didn’t appear as frustrated as she felt.
“Back to square one.”
CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE
Jamil threw them a lifeline.
They were headed back to the station, neither speaking, both stewing at how the Haughton interview had gone, when the newest member of the Central Station research staff called.
“Please tell me you’ve got good news, Jamil,” she pleaded when she picked up. “We could really use it.”
“I’ve got news,” he answered, unruffled. “You can decide how good it is. Tech wanted me to pass along that they’re very close on the thumb drive. They think they’ll have it cracked in the next few hours. As for me, I was able to track down Tara Tanner. She lives in Brooklyn with her husband, Porter Stone, and their newborn baby boy, Gray.”
With everything going on, Jessie had almost forgotten about the actress.
“Anything jump out at you?” she asked.
“No. They seem to be leading a quiet life. She does the occasional commercial. He works for a corporate bank with offices in both L.A. and New York. He specifically requested a transfer.”
“Were you able to determine why they moved?”
“No,” Jamil said. “It could be totally innocent. After all, they were going to have a kid and her parents live in Queens. Maybe she just wanted to be closer to family while still living somewhere she could continue her career. There is one thing, though it may be unrelated.”
“Go ahead,” Jessie said, hoping for anything she could cling to.
“It looks like her husband filed for separation while they still lived out here. But he rescinded it less than forty-eight hours later. There were no specifics other than ‘irreconcilable differences.’ I guess they reconciled them pretty quickly. You can ask her about it yourself.”
“What?” Jessie asked.
“I got her cell number. I was tempted to call myself but thought you might prefer to do the honors.”
“You thought right. What is it?”
Jamil gave her the number and promised that Tech would let her know as soon as they cracked the thumb drive with the Bad Boys list. Jessie called Tara Tanner as soon as she hung up. After two rings, the call connected.
“Hello?” The voice was female and apprehensive.
“Hi, Ms. Tanner,” she said, leaping right in for fear the woman would hang up before she got to the point. “My name is Jessie Hunt. I’m calling from Los Angeles. I work with the LAPD and need to talk to you briefly.”
“Have I done something wrong?” Tanner asked anxiously.
“No ma’am. I have a few questions about Miller Boatwright—”
“I have no comment,” Tanner said tersely, cutting her off. “Any questions should be directed to my attorney. I assume that since you have my number, you can get his. Good day.”
The line went dead.
“That went well,” Jessie muttered as they pulled into the police station parking garage. Trembley had just turned off the car when Jessie got another call. She didn’t recognize the number. Filled with renewed hope that Tanner had changed her mind, she quickly answered it.
“Ms. Tanner?”
“No. This is Mort Ryerson, Garland Moses’s estate lawyer. Is this Jessie Hunt?”
Jessie tried to hide both her disappointment and confusion.
“Yes, Mr. Ryerson. It’s me. I’m sorry. I didn’t recognize this number and thought it might be someone else. How can I help you?”
“Not a problem. I’m actually calling from my cell. I’m in the car on my way to Garland’s place. I was hoping you could meet me there since it’s the lunch hour. I’ve almost wrapped up all the details regarding the estate. But Garland left a gift for you at his house and requested that I show it to you in person. Once that’s resolved, everything will be complete.”
“Can it wait? I’m in the middle of a case.”
Trembley made a face at her that she didn’t understand.
“Actually, hold on one second, Mr. Ryerson,” she said before mouthing to Trembley, “What?”
“We’re at a dead end,” he whispered. “You have time. I’ll follow up here. Go. Get this finished.”
Jessie couldn’t think of a good reason not to, at least not one she was willing to share out loud.
“Are you still there, Mr. Ryerson?” she asked.
“I am.”
“I’ll adjust my schedule,” she said. “Meet you there in twenty minutes?”
“I’ll be waiting.”
*
When Jessie arrived, Mort Ryerson was sitting on the front step of Garland’s house. The front door was open. She parked in the driveway next to his car and took a moment to gather herself.
To Trembley, it must have seemed like she didn’t care about getting a gift from Garland. But that wasn’t it. What she couldn’t tell him, Mort Ryerson, or anyone was that she didn’t feel like she deserved a gift at all. Garland was dead because of her. Her ex-husband had killed him specifically to hurt her. That she would in some way benefit from his death seemed more than inappropriate. It just felt wrong.
But since saying that out loud was more painful than keeping it hidden inside, she put on a smile, got out of the car, and walked over. She just wanted to get it over with. The man wore a suit despite the weather and she could see beads of sweat on his bald head even from a distance.
“I already unlocked everything,” Ryerson said, standing up. “You know how elaborate Garland’s security measures are. I know you’re busy and didn’t want you to have to wait.”
“Thanks,” Jessie said. “So once this is done, the estate is resolved?”
“I still have a few things to wrap up, but as far as you’re concerned yes. I appreciate your help in the matter. As you know, what little family he had wasn’t all that interested.”
Jessie nodded. It had been a burden to go through the remnants of Garland’s life. Every memento opened a tiny wound, reminding her that he’d be alive now if not for the actions of her own ex-husband. But if helping settle his affairs was all that was being asked of her, then that seemed like a small request.
“Shall we end the suspense?” she asked. “Do you want to show me the gift he left me?”
“Let’s do it,” Ryerson said, leading her inside. Jessie noticed that he had a secretive smile on his face. She’d never seen him anything but somber. It was oddly unsettling.
They stood in the well-appointed living room, surrounded by furniture that had, in some cases, been hand-built by Garland himself. At first glance, the place had an old-fashioned feel. But Jessie knew that embedded throughout the home was all manner of technology, designed both for comfort and protection. She looked over at Ryerson, her eyebrows raised.
“I’m giddy with anticipation,” she said jokingly. “Where is it?”
“You’re looking at it,” he said, the smile no longer so secretive.
Jessie looked around, confused, searching for some gift-wrapped box.
“Where?”
“Everywhere,” Ryerson said, more excited than she’d ever seen him. “The house is your gift. He left it for you in an addendum to his will. I only found out m
yself this morning.”
“What?” she asked, dumbfounded.
“He specifically said you can do whatever you want with it—sell it, rent it out, bulldoze it and use the bones for kindling.”
Jessie stared at Ryerson, still not entirely sure this was real. He nodded in understanding.
“I had it appraised and the home value is in the one-point-three-million-dollar range, so maybe don’t go the kindling route. Garland did want me to convey one thought, however.”
Ryerson pulled out a sheet of paper and handed it to her. It read:
Jessie,
If you’re reading this, I’m dead. It probably happened fending off a mountain lion while thru-hiking the Pacific Crest Trail. That or I fell and hit my head on the way to the freezer for more ice cream.
Either way, I wanted you to know, in case I never got around to saying it in life, that it has been a pleasure getting to know you, watching you grow as both a profiler and a person. I didn’t think that at my advanced years, I could make any new friends. You ended up becoming much more than that to me.
I hope that the years ahead are less rocky for you than the ones behind you. I hope that the demons that have haunted you loosen their grip, or that you loosen your grip on them. Regardless, I know that you will face down the future with the same indomitable strength that has sustained you up until now.
Please remember that while in our work we often see the worst in people, your life is made richer by allowing yourself to believe the best of them, especially those closest to you. Give them the benefit of the doubt until they give you cause not to, and maybe even after that. We are all flawed, imperfect creatures. As long as we strive to become better, we deserve a bit of grace. That goes for those you love and for you too.
Also, the house is yours now. You are free to do what you like with it. But I hope you might consider making it a real home. You deserve one.
Garland
Jessie looked up to see that Ryerson was holding out the keys. She didn’t move, not even to wipe away the tear trickling down her cheek. He reached out, took her hand, and pressed them into her palm. Then, without another word, he turned and left, leaving her alone in her new house.
CHAPTER TWENTY SIX
Jessie sat on the porch, trying to decide which emotion to focus on.
She felt simultaneously overwhelmed, bewildered, appreciative, and, most of all, guilty.
What would Garland Moses think of her in this moment? Not only was she no longer an official profiler for the LAPD, but she was treading water in her unofficial consulting capacity. She was doing a terrible job of offering grace to her little sister, who she feared was a sociopath. Just last night, her dreams were consumed by the demons from her past. She wondered whether, if he knew how she was doing, he might retract the offer of the house.
Shaking her head in annoyance at herself, Jessie stood up.
Stop feeling sorry yourself.
She wasn’t sure if it was his voice or her own in her head. Either way, she decided to listen to it. As she wandered around the house, trying to clear her head, the practical impact of owning this place became clear.
As a result of years of hunting down killers who might want payback if they escaped or were ever released, Garland’s security measures were even more stringent than the ones Jessie had established at her old condo. The house was bigger too, with lots of distance between the three bedrooms, one more than the condo had. The walls were thicker as well, allowing everyone a modicum of privacy.
Best of all, the house was one story, which would make for better ease of movement if—no, when—Ryan got out of the hospital. It would be easier to set up wheelchair ramps and wall rails here than in an apartment building with multiple floors and long hallways, or in a house with a second story.
Jessie sat down at the desk in Garland’s office. Something about being in this room cleared her head. She glanced absentmindedly at the coffee mug paperweight, rereading the line on it:
Whoever kills one life kills the world entire, and whoever saves one life saves the world entire.
She closed her eyes and allowed her mind to drift from her personal situation back to the case. She couldn’t save Corinne’s life, but at the very least, she could get justice for her. And others might be in danger too with a killer out there. She asked herself what Garland would focus on. What was the connective tissue among the seemingly unrelated clues and suspects?
One thing was clear. Everything about the case seemed to involve a jumble of convoluted power dynamics. Corinne Weatherly wielded it over the cast and crew of the film. Director Anton Zyskowski did the same with everyone but her. All the behind-the-scenes Hollywood players she’d met—producer Miller Boatwright, agents Phil Reinhold and Jake Morant, and studio head Remy Haughton—wielded whatever power they had with impunity.
But for them, there was an extra dimension: sex. Boatwright had a reputation, deserved or not, of using his position to extract sexual favors from women. Both agents had used actresses to satisfy the urges of clients and then manipulate those very same clients. Haughton was at least aware of all it, even if he wasn’t technically complicit.
Jessie leaned back in her chair, trying to relax, trying to let it come to her. She felt like she was overlooking something that was right in front of her, something that would unlock the mystery of what happened to Corinne Weatherly.
Corinne. She was the key. And suddenly Jessie sensed an imaginary click in her head as a new door of possibility opened. Her eyes popped open. A second later she was dialing Trembley’s number. As soon as he picked up, even before saying hello, she dived in.
“We’ve been thinking about this wrong,” she said.
“Hi, Jessie,” Trembley replied. “Nice to hear from you. Thinking about what wrong?”
“We’ve been circling an obvious theory without really exploring it.”
“What possibility?” Trembley asked.
“That Corinne slept with Miller Boatwright to get her first big role in Petals and Petulance. I know that possibility has been out there, unspoken. But let’s speak it.”
Trembley was quiet for a moment before responding.
“Okay, but I don’t see what the theory gets us. That movie came out a decade ago. Even if it did happen, why would it blow back on her now?”
“That’s exactly the question we should be asking, Trembley. What has changed since then? Since you’re the cinephile, tell me if I’m getting all this right: the fairy tale story is that Corinne Weatherly beat out hundreds of actresses for the lead in that movie, right?”
“Right,” he confirmed.
“And supposedly Boatwright was the one who championed her when others weren’t sold on her, right? He was the white knight who rescued her from a previously unmemorable career, correct?”
“Correct.”
“And despite his reputation as a womanizer, no one questioned the glass slipper story because the movie was a commercial and critical hit, reinforcing the narrative that he’d discovered this remarkable talent among a sea of actresses. Is that fair?”
“All good so far,” Trembley said.
Jessie paused for a moment to let her words catch up with her brain.
“Then why,” she asked, “didn’t they ever work together again?”
“What do you mean?”
“They had massive success with this film. It’s seems like a no-brainer for them to team up again at some point. But according to Weatherly’s filmography, she and Boatwright never worked together on another movie, ever.”
“Maybe their schedules just didn’t align?” he offered.
“Maybe,” Jessie conceded. “Or maybe something happened with that movie that guaranteed she would never work with him again.”
“Like what, exactly?”
“I don’t know. Maybe he pressured her for sex to get the role. Maybe she offered. Maybe it was in both their interests to keep that quiet to maintain the fairy tale casting story.”
�
�I guess it’s possible,” Trembley said. “But it doesn’t really line up with how Reinhold described her. Remember, he said that Corinne only used the Bad Boys list to negotiate better contracts, not to get roles. It sounded like she had a real aversion to getting parts the wrong way.”
Jessie smiled to herself. She was glad Trembley couldn’t see her expression because she knew it would come off as condescending.
“He did say that,” she agreed. “But why would we believe him? This is the guy who came up with a concept that was essentially an aspiring actress prostitution ring. I’m not willing to take any of his assertions at face value. And even if I did, that doesn’t blow up the theory. What if she refused to use the list to get roles later in her career because she regretted doing it originally? What if she felt ashamed about how she achieved her initial fame and success and vowed never to do it again?”
“Okay,” Trembley said. “That seems plausible. But it still doesn’t explain why this would all blow up now.”
“No, it doesn’t,” Jessie agreed. “I could speculate. Maybe her casting in the Marauder reboot opened the old wounds of someone who thought she slept her way into this part just like the one that made her famous in the first place. Maybe it was a co-worker who got sick of taking abuse from someone they thought got famous by sleeping around. What if there’s another Petra Olivet out there who decided to take things out on her tormenter rather than herself?”
“That’s a lot of speculation,” Trembley warned.
